"What--surely it can't be--Is it you, Peer?"

"Ye-es," said Peer, gaping a little, and took off his cap.

"Well, now, that's funny. My name is Holm. Well, well--well, well!"

The lad in the cart had driven off, and the gentleman from the city and
the pale country boy with the patched trousers stood looking at each
other.

The newcomer was a man of fifty or so, but still straight and active,
though his hair and close-trimmed beard were sprinkled with grey. His
eyes twinkled gaily under the brim of his black felt hat; his long
overcoat was open, showing a gold chain across his waistcoat. With a
pair of gloves and an umbrella in one hand, a light travelling bag
in the other, and his beautifully polished shoes--a grand gentleman,
thought Peer, if ever there was one. And this was his father!

"So that's how you look, my boy? Not very big for your age--nearly
sixteen now, aren't you? Do they give you enough to eat?"

"Yes," said Peer, with conviction.

The pair walked down together, towards the grey cottage by the fjord.
Suddenly the man stopped, and looked at it through half-shut eyes.

"Is that where you've been living all these years?"

"Yes."